


Animal Attraction

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [5]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Out of Character, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: An extended scene from 5x03 at the parking lot.
Relationships: Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley/Donald Ressler
Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796308
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Animal Attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Звериное притяжение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108259) by [Gwyllt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt). 



> In a way, I create my own TBL-universe. Why? Because.

Ressler feels sick.

He has to—has to, ten years in the FBI!—get used to seeing corpses, but circumstances matter too. There are two different things: one—to look at the photos from cases, or even bodies when arriving at the crime scene; even to kill—God forbid—is a different thing.

But right in front of him, packaged in a blood-soaked cellophane bag, are parts of

(meat)

dismembered body: here is a palm with neatly painted nails; there—a shock of dark hair, shining in the lamp’s light; in the corner of the trunk, like two logs, the shins lie, and Ressler sees a slice of red meat cut with a white bone in the center, dark dots of vessels spread all over it. They haven’t bled out, which means she has been maimed postmortem… Something croaks in Ressler’s chest—as if such “mercy” justifies the dismemberment.

Ressler slams the trunk shut, his fingertips pressed into the thin slit between the trunk’s lid and car’s body until it hurts.

There are two different things.

One—to solve serial crimes. Another—to hide the body of an innocent girl, who isn't old enough to buy drinks. 

And would never be.

Ressler presses his wrist to his mouth, panting and breathing in the polluted air of underground parking. Sweat trickles down his face,—the damn vent isn’t working—and it seems the car reeks of a subtle, syrupy smell of a decomposing corpse…

Brakes squeal, an engine roars; Ressler bounces, caught off-guard in the mid-flow of his thought. His heart jolts up to his throat and hammers like crazy; Ressler freezes, breathless—and then recognizes the car, and his heart slows down, the dry hot air bursting into his lungs.

_Bitch._

At full speed, the driver spins the steering wheel, and the car swerves left. Ressler shrinks away and does so for a good reason—his knuckles scrub across a shiny fender, a wordless hint: another instance of hesitation, and he would have ended up without his hand; the car turns around, and the driver puts it into reverse gear—it barely brushes Ressler, driving past.

The car easily crosses two parking lots at once—its bumper hits the column with a “C-13” number on it—and stalls, spewing the cloud of grey fumes.

Ressler unconsciously rubs his “injured” hand, his skin sizzling as if socked by sandpaper, but watching Prescott get out of the car is way more painful. Perfect hairdo, vulturine face, a double-breasted dark-blue suit, no crease on it—Ressler trembles and shakes, and it’s after ten years at the FBI.

Well, there is a reason for this—he has royally screwed up for the first time since...His whole life, actually.

“You know the proverb about the curious cat, Agent Ressler, don’t you?” A thin smile blooms on Prescott’s face, flooding his blue eyes with venom: of course, he has figured Ressler has had stuck his nose into the trunk, despite the question “how?” remaining a mystery.

“I had to take a look,” Ressler snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

Prescott raises his eyebrows and closes the distance between them with three confident steps—and Ressler steps back with two, not wanting to stand so close to this psychopath. Prescott’s smile gets broader: no doubt, playing cat and mouse with Ressler must be his definition of fun. A pet—Ressler shudders in disgust—FBI agent, who never bites back. Probably, he finds this string of circumstances quite tempting.

“Should I check the package? Certain pretty girls' parts aren't easy to let go of, huh?” he playfully elbows him, his voice lowered to an intimate whisper. “I’ve been there, Agent Ressler, and I feel you.”

Ressler stares sheepishly in his blue eyes for a few instants, frowning. Then it comes to him, a full swing at his head with a baseball bat, what Prescott is talking about, and Ressler shrinks back again in another wave of disgust: whom does he take me for?

“You're sick,” breathing out, Ressler barks; it’s not a scream, rather, a hissing, flat tire-like whisper. His head tilted back, Prescott lets a soft laugh—it makes Ressler’s skin crawl.

“I prefer ‘natural needs,’ Agent Ressler. I’ve never understood why on a scale of disgust necrophilia is above rape. Corpses don’t care.”

Something in these twisted judgments, some scraps of common sense, entangles Ressler like seaweed, pulling him down to the bottom of madness. Who is worse—a rapist or necrophiliac…? Ressler almost shakes his head: no, he won’t swallow this sophistic bait. Doesn’t matter who is worse; both of them are scums of society, bastards to be put down like some rabid dogs. And the mere suggestion he, Ressler, could do something like this...

“I am nothing like you, got it?” Ressler spits through his gritted teeth. “I’m done here, ‘pleasure’ doing business.”

He turns his back to Prescott, intending to leave, but Prescott’s fingers clutch at his arm above his elbow in a steel grip wringing his muscles, and the piercing pain shoots up to his shoulder. Prescott spins him around with an abrupt jerk forcing him to stop.

“You’re carrying the bodies, doing my bidding, Ressler,” Prescott’s voice is almost gentle, yet it doesn’t match the sharp jerk, which has caused Ressler’s arm to grow numb. “And you will until I set you free—and until then, you are my bitch.”

 _My bitch_. The light goes out in Ressler’s eyes, but he forces himself to stand upright—he even grins right in Prescott’s face.

“Yeah, you gave me no choice. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Gave you no choice?” a condescending look flees from Prescott’s face, his eyebrows now knit, blue eyes hidden in heavy shadows. “Oh no, Agent Ressler, you did have a choice. You could have done what a real FBI-agent would—confess, and do your penance.”

Ressler scoffs—a fucking cleaner now judges him, great. He opens his mouth but doesn’t get to say a word. Prescott yanks him closer—Ressler almost bumps into him—and then presses his finger to Ressler’s lips, shutting him up.

“I’ve not finished yet, Agent Ressler,” he whispers smarmily, his eyes gleaming, the lamps’ lights reflected in them. “You could have surrendered, and it would do you the honor, but you _chose_ another way. You _chose_ me. And now you’re trying to pin the blame on me for your own choice. I do _not_ appreciate this.”

At the end of his rant, Prescott’s voice drops to a barely discernible whisper, and he leans his face to him, the tip of his nose almost brushing against Ressler’s. Two stains of sweat spread across Ressler’s armpits, wet fabric clinging to his body. More disgusting than that is the feeling of Prescott’s finger on his lips. Stick the tongue out—and you’ll touch it; Ressler pulls himself together to stand as still as he can—

and then Prescott's fingertip slides down between his lips.

“What the fuck?!” His patience worn thin, Ressler flips. One precise palm strike on Prescott's wrist—and he now presses his hand against his chest, his face distorted by a pained grimace. Ressler spits a mouthful onto the ground and wipes his lips with his jacket sleeve, salty taste of foreign skin blooming across his tongue. “You fucking nuts?!”

Prescott slowly wraps his fingers around his wounded wrist. Sprained? No? Please yes—and then a predatory smile splits his face.

“Here's the crux of the matter, Donnie.” Icy water, Prescott’s whisper flows into Ressler's ears, and although the words aren't spoken yet, a bad feeling twists Ressler’s gut. “You’ve hurt me badly, Donnie. And I don’t like it when someone hurts me. That’s why you will let me do a little something in return.”

“Wh-what?” Ressler breathes out.

“And before you snap, I’m telling you: you still _have_ a choice. I’m not forcing you to do anything—I even have no gun.” Prescott raises his hands, showing empty palms—and then grabs Ressler by his tie and pulls him closer. His dark eyes wander chaotically all over Ressler’s face. ‘Come on, Donnie. Punch me. I won’t even fight you—you’re clearly out of my weight class.”

No doubt, Prescott wants Ressler to punch him, and it takes Ressler a lot of effort not to grant his wish.

“Don’t tempt me, bastard.” Ressler’s voice hoarse, he lays his hand on Prescott’s palm, meaningfully squeezing his fingers. The palm feels slightly wet—the heat bothers them both, not making a difference.

“Your choice, Agent Ressler,” Prescott whispers in return. His other hand slides across Ressler’s back—and lower, slipping over the belt, and freezes on Ressler’s ass, shamelessly squeezing it.

The lightning flashes in Ressler’s mind highlighting undertones and hints of the situation.

“No!” Ressler blurts out, pulling back from him, but Prescott pulls him closer, a wicked grin blooming on his face.

“Yes,” his hand slithers down, and his fingers slide between Ressler’s hips, busily groping him. “Run, Agent Ressler.”

He reads the long con answer in Prescott’s eyes: run, Agent Ressler, and all evidence on Hitchin’ case will come up; run, Agent Ressler, and the steering wheel fingerprints of this car are going to be the proof against you in the case of a murder cover-up. Run, Agent Ressler—abroad, if you make it there in time, of course.

Ressler knows he won't make it, and that’s why he doesn’t flinch, letting Prescott put his hands all over him. Prescott squints, the shadows veiling an insane twinkle in his eyes, and leans to Ressler’s ear.

“I like it when you look at me that way.” Prescott’s fingers slide off Ressler’s tie, run over his shoulder, gently touch his neck, slithering up to the nape, stroking trimmed hairline. “I meant to tell you that I find this arousing. And now I have an opportunity.”

Prescott could have said nothing—his boner is poking into Ressler’s thigh. Ressler shudders in disgust, barely keeping the dinner in his stomach, but doesn’t move, guessing—is it worth it? Is this impending humiliation worth taking it...?

Depends on how many years they give him for the murder of National Security Advisor—if they do, of course. Neither NSA nor FBI wants a stain on their reputations, and they would rather choose to eliminate the problem than cleaning up the mess.

_Funny._

“You’re telling me about the choice,”—Ressler clips, looking at Prescott’s eyes—“as if I have one.”

“There is always a choice, Donnie,” the hot breath, feather-like, brushes over Ressler’s neck. “The question is—are you ready to take the consequences?”

Ressler closes his eyes, sinking into blessed darkness. He can handle it. He will do it. In the darkness, he feels safe; in the darkness, one could distract himself and not think—

to feel a pungent smell of unfamiliar cologne; to feel how easily Prescott loosens his tie and then yanks it off his neck; how quickly he unbuttons his shirt, and then—his belt; how Prescott’s fingers slide under his pants, unceremoniously grabbing his ball sack. But more importantly—to feel wet kisses on his skin, scattered across his neck and his chest. Prescott nibbles on his tensed muscles, slithers his tongue over the collarbone curves, bites down the undershirt, leaving wet marks—and he, it appears, isn’t bothered by a bit that Ressler is sweating buckets on this fucking parking lot. 

Hysterical laughter freezes in Ressler’s throat, unable to break out through the tight muscles locked in a spasm **—** and Prescott’s hands catch the erratic shiver of Ressler’s body, pressing onto his sunken diaphragm.

“For fuck’s sake, cut the foreplay,” Ressler mutters, his eyes closed. Every Prescott’s touch is nasty on its own, but all together, they are a symphony of repulsion. “Get down to business.”

“You like it rough, Agent Ressler? Prescott purrs, his fingers brushing across Ressler’s ribs, forcing his diaphragm to contract again.

“I prefer to end this as soon as possible,” Ressler snaps, clenching his fists. _Touch me again, and you’ll kiss my fist._

Has Prescott frozen, or it’s just his mind’s trick?

“Very well,” the whisper bursts in Ressler’s ear, and in an instant, a hard kidney punch throws Ressler on the car’s hood. His elbow and palm hurt when he hits it; Ressler opens his eyes involuntarily, attempts to turn around, but his reaction time is crap—Prescott pins him against the car, pressing him down from behind. The zipper hisses—the dry wind blows against his thighs, and then something disgustingly wet trickles down his tailbone—and lower. It doesn’t take a genius to grasp what, and Ressler lunges, not giving a flying fuck about choices and consequences. No consequences are worth…

“I don’t think so,” Prescott’s palm wraps around his throat, fingers carving into his windpipe, and Ressler freezes, tilting his head back. “Too late to change your mind, Donnie.”

“We ar-re at the parking lot,” Ressler rasps through gritted teeth, feverishly trying to reason with Prescott. “Anyone can—”

“Aren’t you thrilled by the small risk, huh?” Prescott licks his ear, and Ressler is this close to puking his guts out. “Picture this: some poor guy taking the wrong turn and seeing you like that...”

“You fucking—” It’s like someone chops Ressler’s voice with an axe, and there is a legitimate reason for it: Prescott’s finger has slipped through his ass cheeks, stroking sensitive skin.

“Relax, Donnie. I mean it.”

Ressler’s earlobe flares up with instant pain changed into a wet tongue touch—and then Prescott’s finger happens to be inside him, and Ressler stops in his tracks, petrified from head to toe.

Until now, the only person who Ressler has allowed to do something like that was his attending physician—and now the exception has ceased to be such. Prescott’s finger—nauseously wet and sticky—is moving inside of him, stretching muscles, and from now on, resistance is not only futile but dangerous too: who knows what Prescott can pull off...? A clutter of crime scene reports and photographs is swarming in his mind— _when putting up resistance, the victims only work them up, yeah…?_ —but Prescott’s smooth movements don’t let him distract himself and fall, don’t let him drown in them, drifting away from what’s happening.

It seems he’s exploring the depths of his gut with a finger—and Ressler almost tells him to find a new job, but another Prescott’s finger joins the first one, and the words halt at the tip of Ressler’s tongue.

Prescott’s fingers are sliding into him, almost a whole foot within, and sliding out with wet lube squelch, and Ressler is ready to throw up for real. “Relax and enjoy,” right?—Ressler couldn’t name anything as less enjoyable as this; maybe, a gunshot wound...? Prescott’s fingers have been tearing him from within, stuffing him with lube like a Christmas turkey—with apples, and it spills and trickles down his thighs, leaving a long sticky trail. And then the third finger joins the other two.

“I hate you, Prescott,” Ressler breathes out, his eyes tightly shut. Clinging to him even closer, almost lying down against his back, Prescott gently strokes his crooked throat.

“Nothing new, Donnie. But it doesn’t have to be nasty.”

“I’ll kill you.” Like short gunfire, the words burst out from his mouth.“I swear, you’re a dead man.”

“Maybe. And maybe, you’ll like it.” A kiss on his cheekbone brands him like a Holstein. “You’ll never know unless you try.”

Ressler wants to say something else, but Prescott’s palm disappears off his neck. However, he blows his chance: Prescott enclasps his thighs, securing them, and, before he realizes what it means, Prescott thrusts into him, slipping inside.

Somehow, Ressler isn’t furious, rather, gripped by weird, illogical calmness. The worst has already happened, and well, it is not as terrible as it seems, is it?

Is it...? 

Prescott is setting the rhythm, hammering Ressler’s thighs into the car’s hood, and it seems to Ressler he is soaring over the body, watching at the scene through the eyes of a stranger—because it couldn’t have, couldn’t have happened to him; why has he let this happen…? Why isn’t he fighting back, why, why… Pain, a glaring spot, blazes in his mind— Ressler lets out a hollow groan—and Prescott smacks his ass again, fingers scraping the skin and spreading his ass cheeks apart.

“Stay with me, Donnie, can’t have you miss all the fun.”

“Fuck you!” Ressler barks out. Prescott, it seems, snorts and then thrusts into him again, and a new wave of pain spills over his body, dull, nagging, escalating with each movement. “Fuck you…!”

“Love it when you’re cocky, Donnie.”

“Fuck you!!!”

Instead of answering, Prescott kisses his back, apparently thinking that arguing is beneath him. Ressler sinks his head down against the icy car hood, exhaling—his breath turns into a round condensate stain on the surface, obscuring the reflection. Ressler is glad—he doesn’t want to see his face, to see the reflected pipes’, to see anything…

Prescott is taking his time to extend the humiliation—he either slows the pace down, swaying, shoves his cock into Ressler’s ass, or rushes up, ramming into him with the utmost force so that Ressler’s thighs end up pressing against the hard bumper. It— _almost_ —doesn’t hurt: just the sheer knowing he’s being used like a slut, on the parking lot, slammed against the car hood, though this time no extra half-yard for anal. A push—and brief whining, like a battered puppy spunk with a towel for a pee puddle on the floor, escapes Ressler’s mouth; a push—and Ressler’s head hits against the car hood, forehead squeezed against the metal until it hurts like hell; a push—and somewhere on the inside spreads a longing, pulling sensation which terrifies Ressler most of all.

“Enough!” he growls, but a whimper raps out. “Fuck...Enough!”

Prescott doesn’t answer—his hands crawl down across Ressler’s body and find a shrunken cock in a ball sack. He wraps his hands around it, his fingers slowly gliding across it up and down, and the damn body answers despite common sense. Ressler bellows and writhes under Prescott, the foreign sensations multiplying like in a mirrored room, crashing down on him in waves, one after another, so his knees start trembling, and hands—weaken. Ressler lurches backwards, trying to punch Prescott with his nape into nose, but he ducks, figuring out his move, and pinches his ball sack, rolling it between his fingers—and an unwanted moan falls from Ressler’s lips.

“Enough! Fuck, Prescott, cut it out!”

But instead of a snide voice, all he hears is a moan—low, throaty, vibrating, belonging to a wild beast rather than a human.

“Ahh, Donnie,” Prescott whispers with a sick admiration and wraps his hand around Ressler’s waist, pressing him against himself tighter. The pace picks up more and more; Ressler throws his head back and finds a shoulder, quite strong to lean on—so he does, breathing in dry, gasoline-soaked air of the parking lot. Thrust, another, one more—and Prescott topples over him, pinning him against the car hood, and Ressler, his legs giving way, obediently collapses onto the icy surface.

When the blood thudding in his ears ebbs away enough so he could hear the sounds, Ressler discerns croaky ragged breathing in the silence. Prescott is still inside of him, one won’t mix this feeling of a stranger’s presence with anything else, and Ressler jerks up, throwing it off—he tries not to think _what_ is trickling down his thighs at this moment. He yanks up his pants, buttoning them up in on autopilot, pushes the button into the narrow buttonhole— _the button slips in tightly, stretching the slit_ —and then doubles over, puking his meager dinner out.

“Gonna be easier next time,” Prescott’s soft voice is coating his mind, and Ressler glares at him, his eyes bloodshot, and wipes a thread of viscid saliva off his mouth.

“Next time, I’ll fuck you with my gun, you bastard.” Odd ease is reigning in his mind now, and Ressler doesn’t have anything against an option where the FBI takes him out on NSA’s orders; still better than all this. Prescott’s lips stretch in a smirk, and he pushes himself off the car hood, zipping up his pants.

“I’m open to suggestions, Agent Ressler.”

Ressler turns his back to him, holding back an embarrassing desire to burst into tears in here. At least, he hasn’t fucked him on the trunk with a dismembered corpse inside, thanks-a-fucking-lot…

“By the way, Agent Ressler,”—Prescott’s business-like tone sounds like a joke—“I have an assignment for you.”

“Another word, and I’ll kill you.” Half an hour ago, Ressler wouldn’t have believed he could speak with the confidence of a fanatic. “I swear on my mother, Prescott.”

“Then I want you to know I’ve noticed two CCTV cams which, most likely, have captured our…Our appointment.” At first, Ressler doesn't process the words, their sense slipping from him. “So, it’s in your interest to take care of it, Agent Ressler.”

Ressler catches a glimpse of his trademark grin when Prescott shuts the car’s door, disappearing in the smoke of exhaust gasoline.


End file.
